


Little Slice of Perfect

by one_red_sock



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Belly Kink, Body Worship, Chubby Dean Winchester, Curtain Fic, M/M, Male Lactation, Mpreg, POV Dean Winchester, Really Chubby Dean Winchester, Schmoop, Weight Gain, belly stuffing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-25
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2019-04-27 14:06:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14426991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/one_red_sock/pseuds/one_red_sock
Summary: Just a fluffy little body-positive, teeth-rotting, slice of happily-ever-after. The boys are retired (mostly), they have a quaint house with stupid throw pillows, Dean's preggers with twins, and Sam loves every inch of him. That's all she wrote.





	Little Slice of Perfect

**Author's Note:**

  * For [compo67](https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/gifts).



> Another shortie for a very nice person who isn't feeling great. <3

_Nesting. Who'da thunk it._

Dean lumbers around their kitchen, the wooden floors groaning in acknowledgment of his rapidly blossoming weight. He hasn't seen his feet in months and they just don't make t-shirts large enough for him anymore. Everything sways and wobbles when he walks—the herbs on their windowledges, the curtains, his second chin—and he gets winded just struggling from the bedroom to the kitchen table. He has to drag two chairs together to provide enough seat for him to plop down, and his forehead has bloomed with perspiration. He's breathless, too big around for a tape measure to gauge (they know because Sam has a thing for numbers), and his tits are starting to leak, goddamit.

It's the tail end of their first pregnancy, his and Sam's, and it's twins. _They're_ twins, two boys. Dean wasn't svelte when he got knocked up, but now? He knows there's no going back. The chairs creak ominously as he leans back as much as he's able, the stunning swell of his middle defying his shirt and shoving out between his thighs, downright orbital and firm beneath a thick layer of pudge.

He's beyond fat, his back and knees ache constantly, and his nipples are waaaay too sensitive for anyone's good.

But he's never been happier. 

He feels like he's grown—literally—into what he was always meant to be. It's friggin' weird and has flopped his whole world completely upside down. He still can't get over the person who stares back in the mirror most mornings, big and soft and busting out of everything he wears. His cheeks are apples beneath the beard. Even his _neck_ has rolls. And damn, he's sexy.

Miles of supple, freckled skin, mountains of flesh … the more there is, the more Sam has to play with. And play, he does. Grabbing and kneading and using his considerable upper body strength to manhandle every inch of Dean.

Dean grins to himself, getting just a little bit _dewy_ inside, and watches a spot on his paunch that seems to be moving of its own accord. Any day now, Rom and Remy are due to make their grand appearances. It's at once terrifying and cool as hell. The babies squirm, and Dean runs palms over his gravid middle, sliding his hands under his massive belly and jiggling; it seems to settle the boys. They quiet down in the car too, but Sam has Baby at the moment. Not that Dean could fit behind the wheel these days anyway. The twins are like these weird little aliens, already chock full of personality, and Dean's body has expanded and padded itself to provide ample protection for the squirts.

Speaking of squirts, the two wet spots on his shirt are spreading, but he just doesn't have the gumption to get up and change. Dean takes a moment to marvel at his chest, plump and sitting atop his belly like waterballoons. Just to torture himself, he pinches at the tender tips, and maaaaan, it feels—

Keys rattle in the front door and the hinges squeal.

Dean panics and grunts as he struggles to grab a fistful of napkins, dabbing at his shirt.

“Yo. I'm home.”

More than one set of footsteps are coming down the hallway.

“And I brought Cas—“ Sam rounds the corner and catches Dean, wet-handed, “—to have dinner … with ...” Sam's eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline. “Sprung a leak, there, buddy?”

“Shut up,” Dean says under his breath, as he feels his ears turn scarlet. “IT HAPPENS, OKAY? Stop being a putz and get me a dry shirt.”

Sam has what must be a dozen cartons of Chinese take-out in plastic bags hanging off his arms. He's grinning like a fiend when he drops them down on the table, leaning in to set a kiss on the apex of Dean's belly. “My pleasure, slim.”

Dean knows the scarlet from his ears just burned down the back of his neck. “Bite me.”

“Later,” Sam says softly, before straightening. “You can put the groceries on the counter, Cas.”

Which Cas does, but his scrutinizing gaze doesn't leave Dean's impossible-to-miss middle.

“You've gotten … quite _robust_ ,” Cas says.

“Twins, Cas. Remember?” Sam sounds vaguely chiding. “If Dean wants to eat for two? Or three or four? He's earned it.”

“Of course.” Cas still looks a bit confounded, but he shrugs and begins opening cartons as Sam wanders off, ostensibly to get Dean a fresh shirt.

Until just recently, Dean did most of the cooking. And the eating. Okay, he still does most of the latter, which has contributed to Dean doing less of the former, since being on his feet for more than fifteen minutes at a stretch has become misery. Sam is a crappy cook, but he can buy take-out like nobody's business.

When the smell of the food hits the air, Dean's stomach complains pointedly. Cas squints harder. “Is that normal?”

Deans's ravenous, as per usual. “If you know what's good for you, Cas, you won't get between me and the lo mein.”

“So noted!”

Sam returns with a t-shirt, and Dean knows damned well the thing won't fit. It's from last year, and even though it's one of his fave Led Zeppelin tees (which are nigh impossible to find in bigger sizes), Dean lets Sam have his way: peeling off the old garment like a sausage casing, tugging it over all the undulating swells as the chairs groan, leaving Dean sitting there for a hot minute in all his “robust” glory. Cas politely averts his gaze. Dean snorts and shares a knowing glance with Sam, who bites back a snicker and begins the quest to squeeze a very round object into an XXL shirt.

Sam is nothing if not stubborn, but there's no way this is going to end well. Dean's positive Sam's doing it on purpose, to paw all over Dean in front of Cas, and valiantly (if unsuccessfully) attempt to cover girth that in no way can be covered. The shirt's seams pop as Sam tugs, but there's still a huge mound of middle exposed. Sam murmurs an insincere, “Sorry”, and Dean snaps back, “You owe me”. To which Sam responds, “Okay, so maybe I'm not so sorry ...”

Sam is officially a little shit.

Eventually, the three sit down to dinner. Sam grills Cas about life in Heaven (which has been going swimmingly, thank you for asking), and shares his most recent hunting exploits, tackled after his job as a paralegal. Nothing dangerous, just routine haunts; they leave the bloody stuff for the young guns these days. 

Cas, feigning appreciation for the delicious molecules, bemoans the tedium of celestial bureaucracy. 

Dean powers through carton after carton of the neighborhood's best Chinese and ruminates about life once the twins are born. Settling down. Giving up hunting, for good. It sounds boring but that'll be short-lived, once sleepless nights and developmental milestones kick in.

All agree they don't mind their worlds getting easier.

By the time the sun is kissing the horizon, the cartons are empty and Cas must return Upstairs. Sam sees Cas out, the polite human way, and returns to find Dean heavy-lidded and rubbing his ponderous gut.

Dean feels Sam's eyes on him. “What?” Dean mumbles.

“Tired?”

Sighing, Dean cracks an eye. “And stuffed to the gills.”

Sam smiles, and it's one of the sweetest things Dean has ever seen. “Come on, big guy. I got you.” Sam hauls Dean to his feet—the chairs live to seat another day—and drapes against his back, big hands cupping Dean's middle.

Dean feels sated, full from his stomach to his psyche. There's almost a euphoria to being food drunk and completely guiltless about it. They waddle together to the living room, where Sam fluffs the stupid fluffy throw-pillows and lets Dean plop down onto the overstuffed couch. He lands like a boulder, and doesn't apologize for his manspreading; with a belly this comprehensive, it's a necessity.

Snuggling up close, Sam's fingertips massage through Dean's hair, over his doughy shoulders and once-rock-hard arms. He cruises his palms up under the useless t-shirt and sweeps over Dean's whole expanse, pausing to joggle his growing breasts. He nibbles on Dean's earlobe, kisses his plush, fuzzy cheek. 

They don't have to talk, which is good because talking was never their strong suit. Sam threads his knobby fingers between Dean's pudgy ones. They watch mindless horror movies and laugh at the heroes. They pause when a siren wails down the street outside the front door, and thank their lucky stars that isn't for them anymore.

Dean is more spoiled and desired and needed than he's ever been before. 

And until two tiny, squirming brothers come screaming into the world, it couldn't be more perfect.

*


End file.
